


Starbound

by thatdorianguy



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Found Family, Post canon, Shepard lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 10:10:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatdorianguy/pseuds/thatdorianguy
Summary: The galaxy is forever changed, but none perhaps moreso than the crew of the Normandy. Without their commander to bind them, the team has scattered across the cosmos; some of them burying themselves into work and recovery efforts, while others walk listlessly through their days. The stars just don't shine the same without Shepard to point the way.





	Starbound

**Author's Note:**

> When Thaddeus Shepard wakes up after destroying the Reapers, he's left with a dozen choices but only one that truly matters - building the home he promised. 
> 
> But his friends would have liked to know he was alive before he disappeared.

He woke with a gasp.

It was surprising that he woke up at all - he hadn’t been expecting to, hadn’t even hoped. But there he was, awake and blinking up at a grey sky, beams of sunlight pushing through heavy black smoke and an overcast sky. For a few minutes, all he could do was breathe, a harder feat than usual; he could only fill his lungs so far without a stabbing pain along his sides. His exhale was a worrying wheeze. 

The rocks digging into his back inspired him to move, eventually, but as soon as he tried to sit up, the rocks seemed a hell of a lot more comfortable. He’d broken a few ribs, he was sure, and his leg… He couldn’t see it from the angle he’d fallen back on, but in trying to move it he was acutely aware that it felt like it was on fire. Gritting his teeth, he tried sitting up again, much slower this time leaning heavily on his elbows, the gravel and dirt stinging the scraped, bruised joints, and he took stock of himself. His ribcage was busted bad; his wrist was stiff, most likely sprained; some stoved fingers; bruises everywhere; cuts and punctures all partially scabbed over or at least not bleeding heavily. Well, all things considered, that wasn’t so bad. If the worst he was getting out of this was a broken leg, it was a fucking miracle. 

His leg was bad. Immediately, it was clear it wasn’t a clean break. The armor from his left leg had been torn off from a Reaper’s blast before he even reached the Citadel, stripping away any hope of protection. The skin was dented in places he was sure there was supposed to be bone and swelling angrily. His landing on Earth, however he’d made it, hadn’t been kind: his shin looked shattered beneath his skin.

“Alright. Alright,” he murmured under his breath, bracing himself. He pushed himself up further, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw popped. “Mother fucker, that’s rough.” And further still, until finally he sat upright, dust and pebbles clinking against his dog tags on its way off his chest. “Jesus fucking christ.” The movement left him panting, spots floating in his vision as he tried desperately to compartmentalise the agony shooting through his chest and the angry, pulsing reminder of his ruined leg. It didn’t for a moment occur to him that he could just lay there and die, despite the pain. He had to keep moving. 

“Gotta get up,” he told himself, trying to bring his breathing back under control. “Gotta find a medic.” There had to be medics around. This was the aftermath of a warzone, medics were more valuable than gold. “Gotta get looked at,” he whispered, his vision clearing slightly as he looked for something to help him stand. “Gotta get home.” 

He’d promised, after all. Promised a home. 

A long range rifle lay nearby, dented and reduced to little more than scrap metal, but it felt solid when he grabbed it and it held his weight when he pulled himself up with a long, strangled groan. “This fucking sucks!” he growled through his teeth when he could finally balance against the nearest boulder of concrete. He was lucky: the rifle barely made it to his hip with its shoulder mount fully extended, but it was sturdy and, hopefully, would get him to civilization. The first step nearly found him back on the ground, but the beat up rifle held true under his choking grip. He forced every bit of pain into the back of his mind where it seethed and burned and froze him to the bone all at the same time. 

The spots floating in and out of his field of vision still weren’t gone and there was a haziness to the edges of the world that made his focus tunnel, but he recognized the area around him as the same place where the beam of light had sent him up to the Citadel. Is that what happened? Is that how he lived? He fell back into the beam? 

“Gotta get home,” he growled softly, shaking his head to try and expel the fog. Nope, all that told was he had whiplash. He huffed, frustrated, then took as deep a breath as his broken ribs would allow. Slowly, painfully, he made his way forward.

It didn’t matter how he lived: he lived.

Time is a funny thing in the aftermath of a big battle. Nothing quite feels real - one minute can feel like an hour and an hour can feel like a second. That said, he couldn’t say how long he’d been walking when he became aware of others around him. They were soldiers mostly, their uniforms tattered, armor scuffed and so dirty you couldn’t see the non-regulation decals. Some even still had their weapons. All of them were injured in some way, but there were a few who were fit enough to act as guides and aides. A couple of civilians stayed in the middle of the procession; an old man and a teenage girl. He would have asked them if they were alright if he thought he could speak without passing out. Other, less broken soldiers took up the duty in his place. 

There was no leadership in their group, no commander taking charge. They didn’t stop for breaks, though canteens made their way around to everybody. They were a sizable group, this war-weary crowd, by the time they reached a medical aircraft. A few of them cheered. The old man choked on a sob, the girl holding his arm tightly as tears ran down both their faces. They probably hadn’t thought they’d make it through. He was glad they did. 

“Anybody with a serious, time sensitive injury,” a young medic called out, “come this way. Everybody else, form a queue for the hovercraft.” 

The teenager helped the old man over to the doctors, shaking her head at something he said when he tried to let go of her arm. She wouldn’t leave him. The medic who had spoke waved them through. 

He hobbled last in a line of the rest of the military personnel, shuffling forward occasionally as each man or woman was checked in and cleared to board. He blinked and the line was gone.

“You wanna get checked out, buddy?” the sergeant asked when he presented his tags.  
He shook his head. 

The sergeant shined a flashlight in his eyes, sighed, and jerked his head toward the craft. “Alright, go on.” 

As he was pushed as gently as possible onto the carrier, it occurred to him no one had asked his name. No one had offered theirs, either. They were all companions here, no rank, no medals. He wasn’t Commander Thaddeus Shepard. 

He was just one more lost soldier, limping home.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter: Kaidan does some detective work. Tali and Garrus have mixed feelings on the subject.
> 
> This is the first fic I have posted publicly for a very long time, so please, tell me what you think! I've planned three chapters, but I've thought of expanding this to include the Normandy's arrival home and "days in the life" of each crew member affected by Shepard's death/disappearance. I'm very open to feedback.


End file.
